


What You Can Live With

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Confusion, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vignette, WIP, fuckboy!Wilson, technically a 5x1, tragic!House
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLYYou'd be surprised what you can live with.Or, five times Wilson was blind, and one when he wasn't.WIP
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 60





	1. Confetti

**Author's Note:**

> so this will hopefully be 6 chronological vignettes starting pre-canon and ending in s5. i will be waving my angst stick around fairly liberally for at least the first 5. enjoy, kind of.

House hasn’t attended many weddings; he generally doesn’t receive invites to them for the admittedly reasonable fear that his cynicism and inability to hold his tongue would make him a liability. On the rare occasions he is asked, he’ll know the cute little card he receives in the mail is likely a reluctant gesture of pity (and one that usually goes straight in the trash). Whilst he has little to compare Wilson’s wedding to Julie to - in fact, he thinks the last wedding he attended was also Wilson's, back when Bonnie was all the rage - he’s pretty sure this one is panning out a little strangely.

It starts with the way Wilson hesitates and reaches up to touch the back of his ear before reading his own written vows from a crumpled piece of paper. Julie memorised hers, and her eyebrows move in poorly concealed exasperation as Wilson mumbles and titters awkwardly through cliches and corny promises. His parents, already thoroughly unimpressed with this non-denominational ceremony in an extravagant hotel just out of town, tighten their folded arms and purse their lips as their son stammers his words. There's an audible whisper from the back. Someone coughs. House stands feet away from the entire spectacle, up at the front in his hired black tux. Such is the curse of the best man - a role he still maintains should start and end with the bachelor party.

By the time Wilson finishes, the guests’ silence is of the thick and muggy kind. No one whips out a handkerchief for their watery smiles. House can see Julie’s eyes glistening behind her ridiculously expensive veil. He seeks Cuddy’s face out in the crowd to find that she’s already staring back at him from under her stupid big hat, looking helpless and a little horrified. He merely offers a jaunty shrug as if to say, _you surprised?_

 _Oh, boy,_ the sweep of her fingertips across her forehead responds. _This is bad_.

It doesn’t surprise House that Wilson doesn’t really want to do this - but it does surprise him that _Wilson_ seems to have suddenly realised it, unfortunate as it is that it happened right at the altar. It surprises House further still that he himself doesn’t feel triumphant, or sick with the need to cartwheel down the aisle, bum leg forgotten as he bellows, _I FUCKING TOLD HIM SO._ What he does feel, can be more accurately described as extremely irritated. And, despite everything, there's a little breakthrough jealousy - but that’s just par for the course these days. Just an annoying side effect of fucking a guy who proposes to any woman with a fleck of sadness in her eyes and a string of neurotic personality traits.

House has resigned himself to it now. The days he’d hoped things could be different are barely fragmented memories. It surprises him, what he can live without. 

The ceremony signs off with something like a kiss, but it's more of an unsmiling, tentative brush of lips; Julie’s arms stiffen as Wilson’s hands graze the long silky sleeves of her white dress. The guest’s applause is more squeak than roar. House eyes the gleaming marble floor, gripping his cane with both hands until his knuckles whiten, sucking his lips between his teeth with the effort of forever holding his peace.

The things he does for Wilson.

Julie had been very clear prior to the event that she didn’t want House in any of the wedding photos. She even barred him from riding in any of the hired cars to the much fancier hotel where 300 guests were expected to party down in celebration of what they just witnessed. As a result, House makes his own way to the venue, and doesn’t see Wilson again until he safely tucks himself away in the corner of the grand windowed function room where pre-dinner champagne and socialising are to take place. He knows he won't actually be able to get anywhere near him, not yet at least, so he doesn’t try. Instead, he watches Wilson bob between crowds of uncles and cousins, wincing as he endures repeated congratulatory slaps on the back. A short while later, Cuddy accosts him and yanks him forward for a hug that goes on for a little too long. His hat is missing, he has confetti in his hair, and he looks exhausted. House sips at a bourbon on the rocks he purchased from the bar next door, ignoring the disapproving look he gets from an elderly woman in a red fascinator. She has weird eyes, so House presumes she’s Julie’s mother. Julie, however, is nowhere to be seen.

House massages his right leg with the heel of his palm. The ice in his glass scorches his top lip. 

He continues to watch people congregate. Faces are ill at ease, conversation stilted, voices blending into a dull buzz rather than the special manic joy only a wedding can produce. He gets a fine view of the spectacular ass of one of the bridesmaids when she lingers near him for a moment, holding onto her friend as she changes out of her high heeled shoes. Occasionally, Wilson’s head will momentarily peek out among the throngs before he’s drowning in well-dressed, unfamiliar bodies again. 

There’s a sudden weight on his shoulder, and it feels tentative and annoying. He glances up with a grimace; the hand belongs to Robert Chase, who beams down at him. “How you going, House?”

“How am I _going_?” House hisses, jerking his shoulder violently. “Get off me. And the champagne, for that matter.”

“It is a party,” Chase says with a shrug, his Aussie vowels more elongated than usual. His gormless expression is more pronounced too. “You don’t wanna join in?”

“Have you ever met me?” House retorts, pointedly angling his head to look past him. If he can just catch Wilson’s eye…

Chase lingers; he shifts on his feet. He gives a perplexed jerk of his hands. “We’re Wilson's friends. We should…”

“Wilson is _not_ your friend.” House’s gaze shoots up to his face to deliver this much needed clarification. “Your invite to this shambles was merely a product of his pathological politeness.”

Chase looks a bit hurt, but he hides it with a faint smile. He started working under House about six months ago, and House spends about 75% of his time tolerating him and the other 25 trying to puzzle him out. He’s not been completely successful with either endeavour. But his new fellow is eager to please - eager enough to break the law when House needs him to, at least - and he has a decent idea about once a fortnight. There’s no good reason to fire him just yet.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a shambles,” Chase says eventually. He sounds uncertain, then again he always does when he’s expressing an opinion.

“Then you and I were at different weddings.” House knocks back the last dregs of his bourbon, thrusting the empty glass into Chase’s hand as he hoists himself to his feet. He’s tired of this. “Now fuck off. Go hit on Julie’s fat sister. You’ll make her year.”

House doesn’t bother to mumble _excuse me’s_ or _coming through’s_ ; one advantage of walking with a cane is that annoying feet scatter out of your path very quickly. Someone he doesn’t recognise tries to speak to him; he ignores her and keeps moving through the crowds. He navigates the clumps of elaborate hats, shiny shoes, awkward greetings exchanged between distant relatives, family rifts politely forgotten for the sake of James and Julie. Warm sweat gathers down his back beneath the uncomfortable layers of his suit. Again, seriously - the things he does for Wilson.

He locates his friend eventually amongst a trio of oncology nurses, also invited out of a sense of polite duty House will never understand. Lauren stands the closest to Wilson, champagne glass pressed against her lips in fascination as he says something with his hands stuck in his pockets. His shoulders are slightly hunched, defensive, even though his audience of three is rapt. House doesn’t know the names of the other two, but wonders if the disastrous display they just witnessed has raised fresh hope that they might be in with a chance with their bumbling, baby faced department head. They can get in line, he thinks. I’ve been waiting for years.

“Party’s over,” House says, ignoring Lauren’s glare as he interrupts Wilson mid-boring sentence. The other two nurses, both in strapless dresses that hover modestly at their knees, glance at him with a nervous sort of hatred. “Wilson, I’ve got that instruction manual on mind blowing cunnilingus for newlyweds. Was thinking we could go read it together. It has some neat pictures.”

Wilson’s ears turn a little pink, but the corners of his mouth tremble with the effort of hiding a relieved smile. His nameless admirers touch their hats and look at the floor. Lauren, who has worked at Princeton Plainsboro for years, sips her champagne with resigned, irritated nonchalance.

“I think what House means is ‘excuse us,’” Wilson says mildly, although he grabs House’s arm like a drowning man scrabbling for a raft.

Once Wilson is beside House, no one else tries for his attention; they make it out into the hotel foyer, and Wilson releases a breath so violent House wonders if he's been holding it in his lungs since the ceremony ended. He glances up at the extravagant chandelier above them, and wonders what Wilson is trying to prove.

He slides the tip of his cane across the impossibly clean floor, notes the tasteful faux mosaic pattern. “What the hell happened?” he asks simply.

Wilson runs one hand through his hair, as the other finds his hip. “Do you expect a simple answer to that question?” he says eventually, sounding weary and bitter. His eyes stray to a piece of confetti on his well ironed blazer, but he doesn’t bother to brush it off.

House considers this for a moment. “Guess not,” he says. Then, “where’s Julie?”

“We got into a fight.” Wilson shrugs; doesn’t elaborate. “She’s upstairs fixing her makeup.”

“Oh. I see.” House narrowly stops himself from asking, _did you break down and tell her?_

In the ensuing pause, Wilson tugs on his tie, but doesn't loosen it. House taps his cane on the ground. Their eyes don’t quite meet. It’s bizarre, unreal. Conversation usually flows so easily between them; their banter is effortless, their enjoyment of bitchy gossip mutual. Wilson can make any topic sound fascinating even if House previously felt he could care less about it (though he'd never tell him that - wouldn't want it to go to his head). They bicker like a couple in a nursing home, assassinate one another’s characters like sworn enemies, then have a beer and forget about it. It’s their usual intensity that makes silences like these disconcerting, tense, with guilt on Wilson’s part and unanswered questions on House’s. And, somewhere among all of it, there's just pure, ugly need.

They shouldn't. Not today. It's Wilson’s wedding day, and even House can see the line they're about to cross, glaring, illuminated. It's just that one glance into Wilson’s sad, lost eyes makes him sick with the urge to provide the comfort he needs, the only sort of solace he's good at. The only kind that Wilson actively seeks from him, knowing he'll deliver.

House's room is on the third floor, his stay paid for by Wilson. He and Julie insisted that all guests must spend the night at the hotel, even though a good percentage of them, including House, only live a few miles away. When they enter for the first time, House notices there are some abstract art prints on the walls, set in glass frames bearing not a smudge; the wardrobes are made of stained oak, with a matching desk built into the wall. Wilson closes the door, and that’s about as much as House takes in before there’s two needy hands on his waist, a gust of warm breath on his neck. He shudders.

He lets his cane drop to the floor as he turns around, inadvertently backing Wilson against the door; they go with it. He lets Wilson’s fingers curl around the lapels of his blazer, cling until they tremble. His eyes are wide. He's fearful of this today; they both have moments like that. Afraid of what they’re doing. Of what this has become.

Of course, they knew that last night’s "goodbye fuck" would turn out to be a mere formality, a meaningless gesture. They always are. Wilson insists on every occasion that _this_ _can’t happen again_ , citing reasons such as _Julie_ and _I’m getting married soon_ and _this isn’t healthy._ But it never stops him. Given the leash he keeps wound so tightly on himself, House imagines it must be disconcerting to feel so completely powerless to something.

House is grateful that he himself has no such leash.

Wilson is crying a little bit when House kisses him, but he meets his lips with no hesitation, seeking whatever it is that Julie clearly can’t give him. He seems immediately soothed. His hands flatten against House’s chest, his hips arch forward; he tastes a little like mint, but more like champagne. House gives a little grunt, running splayed fingers through Wilson’s hair as he cups his chin in his other hand. He finds himself wanting to be gentle, knowing that Wilson is truly so damaged at his core. He's loathe to be responsible for any more cracks, ruptures. Is this how all of his other conquests, his dirty secrets, have felt? he wonders as he sucks at Wilson’s bottom lip. House is unfamiliar with not thinking of himself first. It feels like he’s trying on a pair of pants that don’t quite fit.

But then again, it’s not as if Wilson really wants him anyway. House destroys himself a little more every time he gives into this, and that part of the equation, in contrast, feels perfectly natural. It all evens out. Give and take, and so on.

“House,” Wilson breathes, drawing back; his head collides with the door with a slight thump, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “House, what have I done?”

“Your dirty talk is getting worse, Jimmy,” House murmurs. He dismisses Wilson's miserable lamenting, because it won't do him any good; he grazes his fingertips up the sides of his neck as he nips at his chin, enjoying the shiver he evokes. 

But then Wilson shakes his head, displacing him. “I’ve made such an ass of myself. I-I should have learned the vows… but then I read them and I, I didn’t want…”

“Ssh.” House covers Wilson’s hands, still splayed on his chest, with his own, and Wilson doesn’t protest as he quickly manoeuvres them above his head against the door. “We’re not gonna think about that right now, okay?”

House is surprised to hear such reassuring tones emerge from his own mouth; just for a moment, he stops to wonder who they’re really for. He tightens his grip on Wilson’s wrists, tilting his head to suckle on his throat. He can taste Wilson’s tears, feel the tension and resistance of his shame, but backing off, stopping, just isn't an option.

“It’s just,” Wilson moans a little, before continuing, “I love Julie. I do. I do, House.” 

And then Wilson tugs his hands free and shoves at House's blazer, and House assumes the gesture absolves him of any responsibility to reply to that statement. He throws his arms back to assist, breaths escalating; his groin presses into Wilson’s of its own accord, his tongue drags across Wilson’s earlobe as he starts to fumble with the buttons on his perfect pure white shirt, and Wilson growls like he’s possessed as he grabs the back of House’s neck and wrenches him down for another kiss, aggressive with lust and despair.

House aches.

But God, he loves the feel of Wilson’s lips on his neck, urgent, forceful; the sneaky sleight of hand against his zipper, the fingers that fumble beneath his briefs for his hardening cock. He wishes he didn’t yield so easily to his touch, that the purr shuddering from his lips as Wilson’s teeth graze his Adam’s apple didn’t tremble with shameless longing. He grabs Wilson’s still-clothed crotch, quite suddenly, in an act of revenge; and Wilson’s gasp, the little roll of his eyes, is nowhere near as satisfactory as he’d hoped.

“Bed,” he breathes against Wilson’s lips, shrugging off his shirt completely. Wilson nods with a zeal that doesn’t match his guilty, watery-eyed expression.

The throw pillows glow white, stacked up like sandbags against House’s back. They’re only partially naked, open shirts and socks in situ. Wilson’s legs are wrapped around his hips, ass hovering over the gap between his slightly spread thighs. He has one hand on Wilson’s waist, the other meeting his around their cocks, trapping them together, creating friction with their palms and unrestrained cants of their hips. Wilson kisses him sloppily, and he’s wild and frantic, like his life depends on this. Choked little moans echo into House’s throat, and he swallows them down, he absorbs them all, he commits the little sounds and the tastes and the helpless claws of Wilson’s nails over his bare chest to memory. Perhaps it's unnecessary, but he never lets himself get cocky enough to deny the threat that this really could be the last time.

He shoves Wilson’s shirt out of the way with his nose to suckle on his bare shoulder, throwing an arm around his neck. Gestures of tenderness are safe in the throes of passion. It’s a bit like dancing too hard or saying something mortifying when you’re drunk; no one holds it against you really, writing it off as the expected product of you being completely out of your mind. Above him, Wilson’s teeth are clamped into his lip, his eyes misted over with pleasure and emotion. He’s the first to come, with a choked little sob, nails digging into House’s bicep as his head slumps against his shoulder.

In the ensuing seconds before his own orgasm, House registers that he’s back in limbo. Back to not knowing when, or even if, Wilson will want him next. Back to nights of getting buzzed alone on cheap beer, days that pass slowly, joyless.

House grabs onto Wilson’s hand and squeezes, ignoring the grunt of protest he evokes, until he’s rigid and breathless with white heat. For just a few glorious, fleeting seconds, nothing matters.

Hands and stomachs are cleaned; clothes are hastily restored. As Wilson stands before the mirror threading his tie, mouth drawn into a frown but the colour undeniably back in his cheeks, House debates whether or not to sidle up behind him and drape his arms around his waist. But Wilson is a married man now (again), and familiar, affectionate gestures mightn’t be allowed anymore. He remains perched on the edge of the bed, pulling at a loose thread on the sleeve of his blazer. He’ll wait until he knows the rules.

“I forgot to say,” Wilson says, casually, “there’s been a slight change of plan. Julie’s dad’s gonna do his speech before yours instead of after.”

House eyes the little patch of floor beneath his shoes, the soft white carpet. “I didn’t prepare a speech,” he says.

There’s a short pause; then Wilson says, “Oh.” 

When he doesn’t follow it up with _why the hell not?,_ House suspects it’s because he doesn’t really want to know.


	2. Candy Cane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I’m afraid I accidentally posted the first draft of this chapter the other day when it was in no fit state to be read (and promptly took it down!) - sorry about that. Here is the finished version. tw for brief discussion of suicide about halfway through.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who kudo'ed/commented on chapter 1, it makes my day <3
> 
> Starts at the end of S1Ep5 “Damned if You Do” and carries on from there.

The “holiday season” occupies its own level of ridiculousness, so much so that anyone with half a braincell recognises its droning, drawn out stupidity. Any cynical point House can think to make about it has probably been done to death already, which pisses him off, because he gleans a troubling sense of satisfaction from sucking the colour out of anything people find enjoyable lately. 

Number 1 at the top of the “Worst Things about Christmas” list is the songs, tacky money makers shelved and forgotten like their decorative counterparts until around mid-November when they’re hastily tugged down and dusted off, ready for endless syndication and renewed royalties for their washed up songwriters. House feels entirely justified in barring Chase from humming “Last Christmas” under threat of immediate dismissal. He can’t resist creeping into the clinic when it closes for the day to dismantle the radio, just so he won't have to be plagued with Slade yet again; he knows they won’t bother to get it fixed any time soon, too preoccupied with the December surge of coughs, colds and chest infections. 

Has he always been this miserable? he wonders. Probably to some degree - he was eight the first time someone called him an ass, twelve the first time someone called him an ass _hole_ \- but he’s certain that it wasn’t always this pervasive, relentless.

As his fingers glide across the familiar keys of his piano, his mindless jamming slowly morphs into “Silent Night.” He pauses, startled at himself; the note he lingers on rings inquisitively. There’s a vulgar slurp from the couch behind him, which figures. Wilson’s airs and graces usually die a violent death after his fourth beer. 

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. “I like that song.”

“No one _likes_ that song,” House snaps, because that’s easily the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Also, you’re Jewish. You’re not supposed to get down to Christmas carols.”

“Right. Must have missed that in the handbook.” Wilson sounds a little defensive. “Why am I never allowed to like anything?”

House snorts. “Didn’t say you weren’t allowed to like it. It’s just… _stupid_.” 

He wonders why he’s pursuing this argument so passionately. It’s just easier these days, somehow, to attack Wilson over inconsequential things. 

He stares at his spread out fingers as Wilson pauses, like he’s seriously considering a rebuttal. “It’s... peaceful,” he says eventually. “Just sort of makes you feel like everything’s right with the world.”

House rolls his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” Wilson protests, like he always does. “Just merry.”

“ _Merry_ ,” House scoffs. 

The thing is, he has a harder time saying no to Wilson than people realise. 

He continues playing the carol. He doesn’t have to concentrate; “Silent Night” is one of those universal melodies his piano teacher would have had him repeat ad nauseam as a child. He’d hated taking lessons back then, but that was before he understood the concept of having something to escape into. He had no idea how much he’d need the piano (and the guitar, and, briefly, the saxophone), a few years later on in life. Then again, it’s probably not a good idea to think too much about the past tonight; especially as he narrowly managed to avoid speaking to his father on the phone a few hours back. His mom sounded well, although he could hear the sadness in her voice as she asked why he never comes home for Christmas anymore. He wishes he could have spoken with her for longer. 

He plays a bum note, quickly styles it out. He knows how intently Wilson is listening; he can feel his gaze resting on his slightly hunched back. He decides to play the last few notes a little more slowly than is warranted. _All is calm, all is bright._

“That was nice,” Wilson says. His voice is soft, almost meditative.

House dismisses the compliment with a bored shrug, then eases himself around on his piano stool to face him. He ignores the usual grizzle of his leg at the motion. “Any further requests? I hear your people go wild for Ding Dong Merrily on High.” 

“I think you’re getting this information from some very questionable sources.” Wilson has loosened his tie, an arm slung over the back of the couch with the sort of casual familiarity House would never permit from anyone else. “And, no thanks. I’ve had my quota of Christmas. Especially as it’s…” He raises his wrist, squints at his watch. “Now Boxing Day,” he says quietly.

House isn’t surprised; Wilson’s been here for hours. He glances at the empty Chinese food cartons strewn across the coffee table. Julie will be furious.

He doesn’t dare say anything in response. His hands tighten either side of him, fingers digging into the leather piano stool. Wilson purses his lips, clutching his now empty beer bottle to his chest. House waits for him to announce his departure.

But then he swallows, quite audibly. “You got anything stronger than beer?” 

A relieved smile tries to twist its way onto House’s mouth, but he catches it before it can spread. “Cameron got me a bottle of Glenlivet,” he says, with as much casual disdain as he can muster.

Wilson shrugs, though he looks a little stiff. “That works.”

House grabs his own beer, quickly sucking down the final dregs within. That tense knot in his stomach just won’t drown. “It’s on top of the fridge,” he drawls, wiping his mouth. “Be a dear and go get it.”

“Why me?” WIlson’s brows knit as he protests, and House can’t tell if he means it. “I’m your guest.”

“You’ve also got your whole right leg. Don’t be a dick.”

House doesn’t miss the prickle of guilt as Wilson’s lips tighten; it would have annoyed him once, but these days, there’s something oddly gratifying about it. Wilson huffs as he starts to stand up, wobbling a little, using both hands on the cushion for leverage. 

House steps on an empty food container as he holds his leg and limps over to the couch, easing himself down into the spot he'd previously occupied. He hears Wilson in the kitchen looking _inside_ the fridge, and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother to call out to correct him.

He wonders if Wilson will sit a little closer when he returns, if he’ll graze his shoulders with his fingertips as he talks. He’ll certainly be drunk enough soon. The fact that he seems to be _trying_ to get drunk enough tells House that bold, guilty touches are pretty much inevitable. 

The thought makes him sick, but he can’t help acknowledging it: _Does he have to be off his head these days to touch me at all?_

By the time Wilson returns - bottle politely uncorked and two small tumblers in hand - House is feeling exceptionally pathetic. He rests his elbows on his knees, back hunched over. He swivels his head, eyeing the booze with impatience.

“What’s wrong?” Wilson asks, a little cautiously.

House studies Wilson’s face, watches his brow furrow in concern; he thinks about insulting him, but that seems stupid. Any cheap personal remark he can make to Wilson just ricochets off of him like a toy bullet. It’s infuriating.

So House simply clasps his hands together; the knot in his gut tightens. “Why are you still here?” 

Wilson’s shoulders clench as he sits beside House on the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He proceeds to pour their drinks, actually pressing two fingers against each glass as a point of measurement. House suppresses the urge to click his tongue. Amateur. 

“Exactly what I said.” He grabs the tumbler nearest to him, revelling in the immediate comfort of just having it in his hand. “You could be in your own bed, sleeping sound with a belly full of latkes. Instead you’re drunk in my living room, ignoring your wife’s calls.”

Wilson wordlessly picks up his glass. Shadows obscure his face from the low lighting his lamps provide, but House would bet on the fact that his cheeks are turning a little pink. There’s that prickle of satisfaction again. Good. For how shitty House will feel for weeks after tonight, Wilson deserves to feel a little lousy now. It’s silent, hands-off warfare at its finest.

Wilson sips at the scotch, and makes a face of disgust. His eyes are trained on a balled up napkin, flecked with Peking sauce. “I can’t stand Julie’s sister,” he says eventually.

House nods slowly. “Right. So usually, you’ll just be sickly nice to her. Compliment her stupid bracelets, tell her how good her Lego haircut looks and fawn over how adorable her fuck ugly brat is.” He swirls his scotch, creates a feeble whirlpool in his glass. “Which brings us back to our topic: for what purpose are you located in my apartment?”

Wilson’s sip this time is more of a gulp. He coughs slightly, his own back rounding to match House’s posture. “William isn’t fuck ugly,” he says.

House scoffs. “Please. I saw him at the wedding.”

The phrase hangs. Wilson coughs again, shifting his feet. House averts his gaze to the window, watching the snowfall as it delicately shatters against the glass pane. He wants to speak again, to stray as far away from that topic as he can for both their sakes, but he’s loath to give Wilson an excuse to change the subject.

He hears that crass gulp again; when he turns around, Wilson has an empty glass and his hand on the bottle for another helping. House necks the remainder of his drink, then holds his own tumbler out. 

“Isn’t it clear? I’m here because you’re my friend.” At House’s proffered glass, he ignores his own and pours House’s drink first. The manners are annoying, but at least there are no stupid finger measurements this time. “I don’t like the thought of you spending Christmas alone.”

House schools his features into a scowl. He doesn’t expect that statement to hurt like it does, but he mentally congratulates himself on hiding it so quickly. “I spend every other day of the year alone. And Christmas is just like any other day, really. Except Jesus says it’s okay to get drunk at noon and call your Aunt Sheila a bitch.”

Wilson smiles a little at this. Drink poured, he sinks a little further back into the couch, apparently relaxed by his amusement. Their knees brush as he moves; House is uncertain whether or not Wilson did it on purpose. “Do you even have an Aunt Sheila?” he asks.

“Nope. Just sounds like a bitchy kind of name.” House shrugs. He holds his glass to his lips, and his next sip of scotch is the one that finally starts to turn the edges of his vision fuzzy, prompts his tight shoulders to slacken just a little. _Finally._ Nobody should be this sober at 1am during The Holidays. “Besides, I don’t _have_ to be alone. Candy always works Christmas night.”

“ _Candy._ ” Wilson seems to lean in a little closer, his mouth hardening for half a second. “Could she have possibly chosen a more stereotypical moniker?”

Was that jealousy? Even if House is imagining it, the effects of the booze only make the little rush of satisfaction that much more pleasant. “Technically,” he drawls, “this time of year, she’s Candy Cane.”

Wilson groans. “She calls herself that?”

“Yep. And I get a holiday discount. You know, because I’m such a loyal customer.”

Then Wilson just makes sad eyes at him, and House wishes he’d never opened his mouth. He waits for Wilson to respond with something annoying; but he doesn’t. Instead, he stiffens, his gaze straying to the coffee table. House soon realises that Wilson’s point of interest is his phone, set pointedly to silent, gleaming indignantly amidst the empty noodle containers. The caller ID reads “Julie.” Of course. 

Again.

House swallows. “Pick up.”

Wilson stares ahead, as if catatonic; then slowly shakes his head.

House grunts with an exasperation that surprises him. “You can’t ignore her forever. Just tell her you’ll...”

“I think she’s having an affair.” Wilson speaks quietly, though his hands are turning slightly white around his glass. “I can’t… not right now.”

Well. That was unexpected. 

The cellphone glares up at them. House imagines Julie pacing up and down Wilson’s kitchen, wound tight with anxiety, visualising car accidents and serial killers. He wonders if there was a time in his life where he might have felt for her.

"Interesting," he says, as Julie finally gives up. The scotch is hot on his tongue as he adds, “Well, if you’re right, I think that’s what the kids call karma.”

“ _House,_ ” Wilson snaps. He sighs, jamming a hand into his forehead. God, he’s so dramatic.

House offers an innocuous shrug. Yeah, his snarky comments bounce right off Wilson - unless he’s calling him out. It makes him feel powerful.

He slides across the couch cushion, angling his legs until the gap between his thigh and Wilson’s is cigarette paper thin. If Wilson notices, he makes no attempt to move away. “How do you know?” he asks. “About the affair, I mean.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Wilson says stiffly.

“Fine by me.” House frowns. “Now that I think about it, I don’t really want you to talk about it either.” 

Privately, he’s curious; Julie doesn’t seem the cheating type. 

“Thanks a lot,” Wilson grumbles, although he sounds like he actually means it.

Silence settles again - there’s a lot of that tonight. Wilson lowers his hand to his thigh, drawing a breath so heavy he could be in labour. House finishes his drink; his head swims pleasantly.

Wilson chooses that moment to put his untouched second scotch down. He looks solemn, as his hand juts forward; his palm grazes House’s thigh, almost cautious. House watches, dumbly, like he’s baffled, like this was unexpected. Like he didn’t know, as soon as Wilson invited himself over, that this was inevitable.

“Julie has nothing to do with why I’m here,” he says. House recognises his tone; similar to the one he uses when he’s reassuring his terminally ill patients. “I meant it. I don’t want you to spend Christmas alone.”

House doesn’t entirely believe any of that, but he’s sure Wilson does. He’s sure Wilson believes it with all of his bleeding, oversized heart; that Wilson doesn't recognise his presence tonight as a cheap distraction from his third failing marriage. Wilson thinks he’s merely providing comfort to House, connection, friendship, or whatever fucked up versions of those things they’ve created for themselves. Then again, House reflects, Wilson does chase the scent of misery. He’s addicted to fixing. Consoling a lonely cripple on Christmas night must be the stuff of wet dreams. 

House can live with that. At least Wilson is here.

He lets Wilson run a finger along his jaw. He reaches up to grip Wilson’s wrist, gently; feels faintly the thrum of his pulse as he touches his lips there, lets them linger. Wilson’s mouth falls slightly open, the hand on his thigh squeezing gently. “I worry about you this time of year,” he murmurs, a faint smile touching his lips as his eyes roam House’s face. “It’s a difficult time for a lot of people, and…” He trails off.

House’s stomach drops. Wilson really picks his moments. He ghosts his palm across Wilson’s flank, and the heat of his skin beneath his thin shirt is intoxicating. “What are you talking about?” His response is a little stilted. “It’s not difficult, not for me. Just... annoying.”

Wilson’s fingers curl around the side of his neck. House shudders, because his touch is glorious. “You would say that,” he says, with fond irritation. “I wish I could understand why you push everyone away, House. Why your idea of company at Christmas is a hooker with a gimmicky name…”

House shuts him up by ghosting his lips against Wilson’s. He doesn’t dare to kiss, not yet, not quite; he settles for sucking softly on Wilson’s lower lip, revelling in the soft moan he evokes. “Kinda hard to get the old man going when you insist on playing therapist,” he grumbles, before nibbling at Wilson’s chin. 

“I just…” Wilson sidles closer, gently easing House’s mouth away with his soft grip on his neck. “Sometimes I…”

He pauses. His little caresses on House’s thigh falter, and House grunts impatiently. “What?”

Wilson’s teeth graze his lip, his eyes straying to his lap. “Sometimes I worry that I’m gonna get a call saying you’re not… here anymore. And, you know… suicide rates skyrocket this time of year, and…”

“ _Wilson_.” Teasing touches forgotten, House firmly grabs Wilson’s shoulders. He miraculously stops himself short of shaking him. Wilson jolts, but keeps his eyes downcast. “One, stop buying into folklore statistics. You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake. Two - that’s fucking ridiculous.”

Wilson nods, his mouth drawn tight. 

“Three, I’m about five seconds away from calling you a cab and digging out Candy Cane’s cellphone number.” House clicks his tongue, revelling in Wilson’s wince. “Do you really think I’m that pathetic?”

Wilson’s pause goes on for a little too long, before he responds with a murmured, “no.”

When his gaze meets House’s again, his sombre demeanour seems to have melted. Soft fingertips walk a teasing path down his throat, and House’s breath catches, his grip on Wilson’s shoulders slackening. “Of course you’re not pathetic,” he adds, with a little too much conviction. “I wish you saw yourself the way I saw you, House. Wish you could see that someone could love you just the way you are…”

You _don’t,_ House almost says.

It perishes on his tongue; Wilson’s lips hover centimetres from his, irked up into a half smile. He closes his eyes; “ _House,_ ” he breathes, as he slides a fingernail beneath the top button of his shirt. House’s quiet, longing moan catches in his throat as he yields to the ensuing kiss, confused and euphoric and sick with premature shame.

The alcohol makes Wilson clumsy, but there’s something about the taste of scotch on his breath that drives House wild; every little movement he makes is fascinating, every touch loading him with anticipation for the next. He sits shirtless on the edge of his bed, Wilson stood between his spread thighs, hands roaming his hair with aimless passion as House trails increasingly firm kisses down his stomach. He nuzzles Wilson’s waist with his lips, hovering just above his waistband. He silently worships him; he senses some impatience from above him, but he doesn’t care. He has to taste, savour. It could be months before Wilson comes to him again. Sure, it could also be a matter of weeks, even days; but he doesn’t want to get cocky. He is, after all, the sidepiece, the other lover, the concubine. Uncertainty is the price he pays for getting any of Wilson at all.

House holds Wilson’s hips firmly as he takes him into his mouth. Wilson’s choked, breathless _“fuck”_ in response, the two encouraging hands that come down on either side of his face, are almost enough to quiet his mind. His measured enjoyment of Wilson’s body dissolves into something more primal, as he slips away, lured into mindless bliss by the soundscape of Wilson’s contented sighs.

Soon Wilson is inside him, the crooks of his elbows slotted through House’s armpits. It’s close, intimate, like they’re real lovers. Wilson’s pupils are like satellite dishes, his mouth twisting around a soft moan as House mouths at his clavicle, fingernails skating lightly down his back. House is quiet himself, aside from his naturally laboured breathing; his only real vocalisation is the occasional gasp when Wilson, helpless to pleasure, gives a slightly more forceful roll of his hips. Even then, he bites his lip; he can’t bear for Wilson to know how much he needs this, especially when the moment is so tender, when Wilson’s thrusts are measured and urgent and slow. When, if House closes his eyes, he could almost pretend this isn’t a meaningless fuck. Could believe, if he was a little stupider, that Wilson is making love to him. The truth, he knows, is much simpler: Wilson is simply overcome with drunk affection, and his inhibitions are on the floor with his clothes.

“You’re gorgeous,” Wilson whispers, holding House’s head as he plants sloppy kisses across his cheekbones. “You deserve to be happy… deserve not to be alone…”

House tilts his head, regarding Wilson’s half-closed eyes; there’s a slack, dreamy grin on his mouth. Yep. It’s the alcohol. He gives an indignant grunt. He tries to squirm out of Wilson’s clumsy grip, but Wilson, apparently unfazed, just sighs.

“I wish,” he mumbles, “you’d let me take care of you. Help you find someone really _nice_.”

House’s last nerve shatters. “Jesus, _stop_.” 

Wilson is bemused enough to halt, drawing back to blink at House through bewildered, unfocused eyes. “You mean - stop altogether?” he pants.

“No.” House squirms beneath Wilson’s weight. He’s suddenly a lot more breathless than he remembers being, and he can’t quite look Wilson in the eye. “But, I’m starting to really regret not calling Candy Cane. She does everything you do without talking.”

Wilson stares at him a moment, aghast. His lips fold inward, as his arms slide out from beneath House, and, despite himself, House prickles at the loss of the proximity of his body. “Fine,” he mutters. “Guess I’ll shut up, then.”

House scowls. “Perfect.” 

Wilson pauses a moment, hands balling into fists against the mattress as he braces himself. House waits for him to shake it off, to get over it. For a kiss, a gentle caress, some sort of confirmation that everything is okay. Instead, Wilson keeps his gaze trained on the wall above; he resumes his thrusts, faster this time, mechanical in their rhythm. House’s eyes fall closed; he allows himself to release a deep moan, reaching for Wilson’s hips, desperate to draw him back in again. Wilson doesn’t soften beneath his touch; doesn’t so much as shudder at the contact. 

A few moments pass; House gives it a little longer. Finally, he blinks up at Wilson, confused. His jaw is set in determination, grunts of exertion falling from his parted lips. Any hint of ecstasy is nowhere to be seen.

“Look at me, Jimmy.” The plea escapes House’s mouth, quiet and desperate, before he can cram it back in. “I didn’t mean…” He trails off, because he has no idea how to explain himself.

Wilson falters. His eyes close; his hips stop moving. “I know. It’s okay, House. It’s fine.” His tone suggests differently; he follows his statement with a deep sigh, echoing around House’s bedroom. “I should go.”

House’s lungs constrict. “You don’t have to,” he says, mortified at the note of panic that creeps into his tone. “We can…”

Wilson finally shows the hint of a smile, his fingers brushing House’s bicep with a hesitance that feels like a stab in the gut. “I think the moment’s passed.” 

House recognises his tone; polite, clinical. Wilson keeps his hurt neatly pressed and well presented, like one of his shirts. 

House props himself up on his elbows, a thousand protests wrestling in his mind, fighting for their chance to be spoken first; but Wilson is already sliding out of him, careful not to jostle his bad leg. He’s gentle as he disentangles himself, always gentle, because he would never hurt anybody on purpose. To Wilson, the lack of intent is important.

He watches dumbly as Wilson clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, reaching for his rumpled heap of clothes. His hand trembles as he fishes out his boxer shorts. "You’re really going.” House phrases it as a statement, knowing he has a better chance of evoking guilt that way.

“I’m sure Candy Cane is still working,” Wilson responds flatly. His cock is still slick and hard, bobbing almost comically as he stands up. House notes his wince at the sight of it, like he’s disgusted.

Aloud, though, he snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Of a hooker?” Wilson calmly begins to dress himself. “No, House, I’m not.”

“Would explain the sulking.” House shrugs, as his pulse roars in his ears. “Come on. Don’t be so fucking sensitive.”

Wilson says nothing, his balance slightly challenged as he tries to wiggle back into his pants. House’s desperation gives way to anger.

“What do you want me to say?” he demands. “I won’t fuck hookers anymore? I mean, you can hardly accuse me of cheating. You’re the one with a wife.”

Wilson seems to freeze for a moment, his face blank like he’s slipped off somewhere else. Then, back to infuriating calm. “I sure do, House. Thanks for reminding me why I need to go home to her.”

“You didn’t give a fuck about her when you had your dick up my ass,” House changes his tactic with his retort, matching Wilson's casual tone. See how he likes having his dignity so courteously smashed to pieces. “What’s changed, exactly?”

“Well, you pushed me away. So, I guess, nothing.” Wilson ignores his prior points. His voice doesn’t rise, not even a notch. 

House swallows. He finds himself pleased that Wilson isn’t looking at him; he'd easily see in his face how much that statement hurt. He grabs the edge of the blanket and tucks it around himself, because it feels weird being naked in front of Wilson when they’re not fucking. He wishes it didn’t.

“There’s a cab number on the fridge,” he says, with as much feigned disinterest as he can muster. 

“Don’t worry.” Wilson adjusts his collar with one hand, tries to smooth the creases in his shirt with the other. “I have one.”

And then House eyes the ceiling, because he can no longer bear the sight of Wilson’s tight-lipped, pink face. “Alright,” he says stiffly. “Call me when you get home.”

He doesn’t get a response, but he wasn’t really expecting one. The front door slams, Wilson’s final act of passive aggression, and the empty silence he leaves behind envelopes House like a worn out blanket.

When he trusts himself to move again, hissing at the inevitable post-coital rage of his leg, he tugs on an old pair of pyjamas and heads back into the living room. The sight of the food containers, the opened scotch bottle with the two empty glasses beside it, makes him slightly nauseous. He sinks down onto the couch, staring dumbly at the remains of their evening. Perhaps he’ll have the energy to clear it all away later.

He grabs the bottle and fills the glass Wilson left behind, fishing his Vicodin bottle out of the rubble of Chinese food containers. He shakes out three white pills and takes them one by one; they always go down so much better with booze, and he doesn’t care what his liver thinks about it. He switches on the TV, flicking through the channels; he settles for a low-budget Christmas movie on the Hallmark channel, the kind where nauseatingly precocious kids show grouchy adults the true meaning of the holidays. He manages to tolerate it for about five minutes before he’s reaching for the remote; he smiles bitterly as he imagines Wilson curled up in his lap, insisting that House keep the channel on so that they can laugh at the ham fisted acting and stupid plot.

The snow continues to pelt the window, soft and consistent. The repeat of _Star Trek_ he half-watches dissolves into pointless infomercials. He finishes one drink and immediately pours another, massaging his leg with his fingertips and trying to remember where he put the number for Candy’s agency. Not that he plans to call it tonight; but it’ll almost certainly be useful tomorrow.

He waits up until 6am, and Wilson doesn’t call.


	3. Love in Vain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: Sorry to anyone still with me that it’s taken me so long to post this! 
> 
> This chapter takes place towards the end of season two up to pre season three. There is some canon divergence in this chapter; and by canon divergence I mean I picked out certain moments, rewrote them and ignored the Stacy arc to suit myself. Soz Mr Shore. And Stacy. (I love Stacy.)
> 
> tw: angst, alcohol/drug abuse, episode-related references to gun violence.

House appreciates the rarity of truly symbiotic connections. He understands from a lifetime of observing people from a comfortable distance that most friendships are peaky and superficial, built to last only months or years, forgotten as soon as circumstances change or a mutual interest is dropped by one party. He supposes he’s lucky to have Wilson: stubborn, codependent, pathologically well-intentioned Wilson, who will come crawling back even after the most destructive of arguments.

House has learned to share Wilson’s leanings towards selective amnesia. He forgets his recent protests of _this has got to stop_ every time he lets Wilson take off his shirt; he decides he must have dreamed Wilson telling him _this isn’t healthy_ each night he steps aside to let Wilson into his apartment, unsurprised when he finds himself pressed into the hallway wall with a needy mouth up against his and an insistent hand on his crotch. He always lets it happen, because it’s the only thing he really has to look forward to, the only thing that makes him feel whole. 

He’s suffocating. 

He goes to work, he comes home. He fixates on medical puzzles with a new intensity, one that scares him a little; he solves cases quickly, and shrugs off any praise that comes his way for it, because he’s just trying to survive. He spends his evenings bleeding his scotch stash dry. Sometimes, he phones for hookers at 3am, and finds himself particularly partial to the ones who treat him with scorn poorly masked as cool professionalism. When he can’t bear the presence of another human being, he jacks off to the seediest internet porn he can find. He doesn’t so much look forward to Wilson’s free evenings as count down the minutes, the seconds, until they come around.

_And there’s takeout pizza and bickering and dry humping and wrestling re-runs and lectures about House’s alcohol consumption, although Wilson never seems to mind his clumsy, ethanol-tongued blowjobs - and sometimes House wants to call him out, but his throat fills with sand and all he can say is,_

_“Goodnight, Jimmy.”_

House’s mouth is cruel, and lately he can’t control it. He speaks in riddles, shards of glass. He’s used to taking a punch or six from the families of patients just for speaking his mind, but lately it’s an all too regular occurrence. People start to avoid him more than usual. Chase is increasingly careful around him, trying to protect his already fragile psyche from House’s wrath. Cameron and Cuddy, as always, are Concerned. At least there’s Foreman; House can always rely on his most stoic fellow to treat him with alternating contempt and indifference, which he supposes is all he really deserves.

Until one night, everything changes.

Wilson’s suspicions about Julie’s infidelity are confirmed. The account Wilson gives when he shows up on House’s doorstep are vague as to whether Julie ever guessed at Wilson’s own extramarital activities, but as much as House dislikes Julie, he knows she isn’t particularly stupid. He lets Wilson take his couch, tossing him a guest blanket that he's never had to use and warning him not to litter the bathroom with too many pointless toileteries.

He knows that pretty much all of Wilson’s problems arise as a result of his own stupidity, and with anyone else, he’d gleefully point that out. But he doesn’t want Wilson to hurt anymore than he has to; so at 2am, when Wilson creeps into his bedroom, he ditches his plans for the sleep that was eluding him anyway and lets Wilson slide his hands beneath his pyjama shirt, accepting his nervous kiss with renewed hope. Wilson is a single man now, after all. Obtainable. As a result, House treats their subsequent fuck like an audition. He holds Wilson’s head close to his with one cupped hand as they grind and pant and curse, like he's precious, praying his tenderness will communicate how violently he craves the part of full time lover.

Over the next few days, they bicker. House rips Wilson a new one about his grooming habits, and when he jokes that the noise from Wilson’s hairdryer means the arrangement isn’t going to work, he spends hours silently panicking over whether or not Wilson took that to heart. Aside from that, it all feels devastatingly normal, and House puzzles over whether or not that’s a good sign. Wilson cooks; he stocks up the fridge with vegetables House has never even heard of. Over the weekend, House plays the blues on his guitar for hours, and Wilson reclines on the couch and listens, graciously pretending to be interested as House pauses between songs to give a rundown of how many guitarists ripped off Robert Johnson’s licks. Wilson seems relaxed and happy rather than stiff and distracted when he rests his hand on House’s, free from the bindings of a married man. His laughter is spontaneous and genuine, and he treats House’s apartment like his own.

In the evenings, they play movies that don’t get watched, vaguely following the plot from sound alone as they neck and fumble on the couch like teenagers with a free yard. One night, they make love on the living room floor, and just before Wilson comes he mumbles something into House’s neck that House doesn’t quite catch, and isn’t brave enough to ask him to repeat.

The next morning, House hums Johnson’s _Love in Vain_ as he stands at the kitchenette in the conference room. “ _I was so lonesome, I felt so lonesome, and I could not help but cry,_ ” he sings quietly to himself, as he tries to locate his mug; Wilson liked that one, when House played it, even though he’d never heard of it because he’s an idiot. _“All my love’s in vain… it’s hard to tell, it’s hard to tell, when all your love’s in vain.”_

The coffee Cameron brewed earlier smells delicious, and he’s brimming with a giddy energy he’s taking steps to hide lest anyone becomes suspicious. On the drive to work, as he hopped radio stations and ignored Wilson’s exasperated scolding, he made a decision: over pizza tonight, pizza that he definitely plans to buy for once, he’ll ask Wilson to… well; how exactly to word it? He could, he considers, get the takeout place to write a message on the box of Wilson’s ham and pineapple. Nah - too sentimental. He could make Chase download a pirated copy of _Brokeback Mountain_ and ask, “so… horses aside, what do you think?” Then again, doesn’t that movie end badly? He could just keep it simple, he supposes, offer his heart, bare his soul; but then Wilson would just laugh him off, thinking he was fucking around.

As he tears open a sugar sachet with his teeth, he drifts out of his thoughts; his fellows are whispering around the table. He clicks his tongue at the wall. It's nothing unusual. They don’t ever care to include him in their gossip, which he’s fine with. He’s used to it. He gets anything genuinely juicy from Wilson, anyway.

It’s only when Foreman mumbles something like “only just separated” in a tone that falls somewhere between surprised and disgusted that House's ears engage. His smart little ducklings are leaning into each other, arms folded across the table, faces drawn into serious, conspiratorial expressions. There’s a mild horror on Cameron’s face; amusement on Chase’s; Foreman mostly maintains what would seem to be his trademark poker face to an outsider, although his pursed eyebrows tell House that his interest is well and truly piqued. They carry on, open patient files before them forgotten, unaware of their eavesdropper.

“I heard she was from paeds.” Chase is bad at whispering; he just sounds like he has a cold. “If she was, I bet it was Maria.”

“On hospital grounds, though?” Cameron sounds oddly alluring when she speaks quietly. “Surely there must be a policy against that, especially with a department head. He should know better.”

“What, you gonna go running to Cuddy?” Foreman’s hiss drips with scorn.

“No,” Cameron mumbles, without certainty.

Dread eats through House’s gut like a cancer. Well. It wouldn’t be the first time Wilson has pulled something like this. 

He turns around. “When?”

Three heads whip up, eyes fixating on House with varying levels of discomfort. Chase looks like a kid caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. 

Foreman is the first to speak. “Don’t know. Would have assumed you knew more than us.”

“Isn’t he still living with you?” Cameron’s gaze fixes on him as she speaks. She sounds almost accusatory, like House himself could have prevented this. Whatever Wilson has pulled has clearly offended her principles, even though it's none of her business whatsoever.

“It was yesterday,” Chase pipes up nervously. “Maria from paeds, we think…”

“ _You_ think,” Foreman clarifies.

House swallows, eyes scanning their earnest faces. Well, never mind, he tells himself. It’s not like anything has really changed. This is Wilson, after all. They don’t call him Dr Panty Peeler for nothing. He silently continues to pep talk himself like this, his internal monologue like a dam to stop the heartache flooding in. 

Outwardly, he shrugs. “Is talk of which unfortunate nurse Wilson is dicking this week gonna cure our patient, or were you all just hoping for a miracle?”

No one responds. House takes this as a sign they’ve moved on. He ignores his coffee, too nauseous to drink it, as he rattles off symptoms, histories, listens to stupid suggestions with the look of irritated dissatisfaction he’s perfected over the years to hide his internal screaming. The case is relatively cool: Woman still awake after taking a whole bottle of sleeping pills. He really hopes it’s not just a psych job masquerading as something weird. He doesn’t need any more of his time wasted this week.

Unless it's nothing but a malicious rumour.

House covertly follows Wilson down to the cafeteria at lunchtime, fully intending to get to the bottom of the “Maria” situation; their eyes meet as House plucks an apple off of his tray, and they wordlessly stray to their usual booth before House can pluck up the courage to ask a single thing.

Lunch continues as normal: they talk about monster trucks, their mornings, Cuddy’s skirt. Wilson seems to be attracting the knowing stares of just about everybody, from janitors to radiographers. It doesn't escape his notice; he looks shifty, paranoid. He can’t quite sit still. His eye contact is intermittent. It's a glaring tell for House that the gossip, or at least some version of it, is 100% true.

House tells Wilson there and then that he needs to find his own place. He mumbles something about not getting enough sleep with someone else in the apartment, and although Wilson looks surprised and crestfallen, he has the good grace to nod his understanding without pushing it. He excuses himself moments later, mumbling something about a meeting.

House lets him go, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to speak.

_It’s hard to tell, it’s hard to tell, when all your love’s in vain._

**

Everyone who’s met House for five minutes knows how miserable he is, and anyone who so much as glances at him in passing knows something Pretty Bad happened to his leg. Usually, the hand wringing sympathy of strangers and colleagues alike makes him sick; but sometimes, when it suits him, he's not above using it to his advantage.

Pity is something that follows House around like a hex. He got it as a kid from teachers worldwide, even if they could only express their concerns in broken English. It’s the same in every language, though; that curve of the brow, the lips that thin out into a smiling kind of wince. People simultaneously want to offer comfort whilst being glad they’re not in your situation. Cameron is the worst for it; she’s so annoyingly loud with her various sympathy trips that sometimes House questions how genuine they really are. Still, it means she’s the first to forgive him the day he rolls in at midday, clad in sunglasses and a baseball cap due to a roaring hangover. The evening he catches Wilson with his hand on a giggling nurse’s arm, prompting him to scream at Chase over something completely inconsequential, she's slightly less generous; but he overhears her reassuring Chase he didn’t mean it later on. 

There are more hangovers over the next few weeks, more lateness, more yelling. Some days he takes an extra Vicodin at lunch, and he winds up too stoned to really concentrate for the rest of the afternoon, but a well-placed wince and paw at his leg gets even Foreman off of his back. He spends his days woozy and distracted, and his nights getting hammered alone in dive bars where funsponge bartenders confiscate his car keys. He eats lunch with Wilson like nothing has happened, and Wilson feigns the same ignorance as they talk about the usual shit. If Wilson has noticed that House rarely snatches food from his plate anymore, he doesn’t say anything. Then again, House supposes Wilson is distracted. Divorce is taxing and complicated, and he certainly seems happy in his new apartment, wherever the fuck that is. House tells himself that he doesn’t care, which stops him from asking too many questions.

It’s only when Wilson invites himself to a poker game at House’s that he discovers Wilson doesn’t have a new apartment at all; he’s moved in with Grace, a terminal patient of his who he also appears to be fucking. Despite his own complicated relationship with morality, House is disgusted. He accuses Wilson of being a functional vampire, of having a fetish for the needy. No sooner are the words out of his mouth is his anger dampened with more silent analysing, wondering; is he just not needy enough? Not damaged enough, not tortured enough? Why does he have to compete with neurotic wives, dying cancer chicks, 25-year-old nurses too young and naive to recognise the stench of miserable desperation only three-time divorcees like Wilson can emanate? He doesn’t ask Wilson any of this, because he fears the answers. He realises he’s not disgusted about Grace, or any of the others: He’s jealous. He’s numb, and he’s nasty, because despite everything, Wilson _still doesn’t want him._

He stops going to bars. He stops going out at all. He keeps drinking, alone at his apartment, reading journals in various languages and watching soap opera reruns. One night, Wilson calls whilst he’s halfway through a bottle of scotch, a medical journal spread across his lap, open to a page with an article about ketamine as an experimental treatment for chronic pain; he doesn’t pick up, because he never does anymore. He passes out with the book on his chest, and is woken up by the sun streaming through the blinds in his living room. He blinks at the clock on the VCR; 7am. He touches his throbbing forehead. He doesn’t remember what it was like to wake up without a hangover, but experience lately has taught him that more sleep is unlikely to help. He swallows his morning Vicodin and gets up to head into work.

His fellows are surprised to see him in the conference room so early, and with a case to boot. He smugly writes the symptoms on the board: a man with a swollen tongue. He hadn’t been able to resist asking pointless questions, just to hear the patient's garbled, incoherent responses. Perhaps, he reflects, his sadistic streak is a little too pronounced lately.

Later, that’ll be the last clear thought he remembers. He has a vague recollection of Foreman complaining about something stupid. Chase and Cameron getting up, like their spidey senses were triggered, as the man whose face he can’t quite remember barged into the conference room (not unusual - he’s no stranger to former patients and their relatives showing up to yell at him). He knows there was a conversation, a brief one he doesn’t recall the specific details of. He knows when the stranger produced a gun and shot him twice, he used the last of his faculties to note the locations of the bullets - and this guy was clearly an amateur. Neither shot would kill him so long as he could reach the ER in good enough time. 

Through the haze of blood and delirium just before he passed out, he supposes there are a lot of things he could, or should, have felt about that observation. "Relief" probably should have been pretty high on the list. He’s pretty sure that “disappointment” shouldn’t have been there at all.

**

House stays in the hospital for six weeks. He spends the last two sticking his nose into other people’s cases and bothering his fellows, who insist they’ve got his diagnostic work covered (they haven’t, of course; they take on boring patients with diseases so glaringly obvious even Cuddy could figure them out). 

He and Wilson take “gentle” walks around the hospital grounds. They act like it’s something to pass the time, to get House out of his room, but really it’s just to make sure the ketamine treatment he insisted on at the beginning of his admission hasn’t worn off. That he can still walk without pain, without the aid of the cane that had functioned as another limb for so long. It's going well. He's amazed, and a little scared: It genuinely seems to be working.

House puts on a show of exasperation whenever Wilson asks how he’s doing, how everything feels, but he’s quietly grateful. Turns out that having a friend is quite useful in these sorts of situations, to take your mind off of physio and stitches and the fact that a stranger tried to fucking kill you. Cuddy and Cameron try to help too - Cuddy comes by every day to see how he is, and Cameron brings him books and silly little gifts and burritos from his favourite joint up the street at lunchtimes - but they’re not Wilson, so he doesn’t really want them around. Besides, their fussing is largely insufferable. He tells them so, but they just roll their eyes and carry on doing it. He knows he doesn’t deserve their kindness - and the fact that they both realise this too, but continue offering it anyway, just annoys him even more.

The day House is discharged, Wilson announces he’s taking some time off work. House scowls as Wilson drives him home, wearing himself out with his theatrical protests. He bands around terms like “saviour complex” and “Mother James,” scoffing at the mild, good-humoured tones of Wilson’s retorts. But as they drive up to House’s building and Wilson unloads the car of House’s things (and his own), he finds himself painfully unable to keep up the facade. He follows Wilson into the building in silence, praying that he won’t read his excitement, that the giddy zigzags in his gut won’t show in his face.

This has to be a second chance.

**

The next few days pass quickly. 

The immediate future promises House paradise, and on most fronts, it delivers. Wilson quietly takes care of the overflowing laundry basket, without berating House for his domestic sloth. He polishes House’s bookshelf whilst House lays supine on the floor and grunts through his physio exercises. They talk over meals Wilson painstakingly prepares, endless eggs and waffles at breakfast then dinners rounded off with homemade desserts neither of them can finish. At around 8, Wilson will slip down to the store on the corner for beers, and they’ll share them in front of the TV until one of them drifts off, Wilson exhausted from his shift as live-in carer and House’s recovering body greedy for sleep.

It’s nice. It’s pleasant to eat a meal that isn’t mass produced hospital sludge, freeing to have company unregulated by visiting hours. It’s fun to be with Wilson, to vegetate in comfortable silences. Really, it’s no different than it’s ever been. Except that something is.

House lays on his living room floor, moving his leg in mind-numbing semicircles, when it hits him. It’s not that he’s naive enough to expect Wilson to behave like his lover, after everything that has happened; it never even crossed his mind that Wilson _would_ sleep in his bed or hold his hand, not straight away anyway. It’s more that House was sure he would _crave_ these things, fantasise about them. And ever since they stepped through the door, he just.. doesn’t.

It takes him some hours to get his head around this. Wilson starts to comment that he’s unusually quiet. After his third “are you okay”?, House snaps that Wilson is suffocating him, and he means it, and Wilson can clearly tell, because his eyes go wide before he disappears for a while. He busies himself with more laundry like a defeated, downtrodden housewife while House sits down at his piano. An idle, habitual mash-up of classical pieces leaks into the silence as he contemplates the matter further. 

Without the veil of opiates around his judgement, the roaring beast in his leg driving him to stupidity in his desperation for relief, House is starting to notice things. The crisp morning air bleeding through his open bedroom window, how good it feels to inhale as he kicks off his blankets without hissing in agony; how life is simpler when you don’t need to compulsively count pills; how _The OC,_ through the lens of sobriety, is actually fucking awful. But then... there are other things. When House looks at Wilson, the bitter muddle of lust and hopelessness he’s felt thump beneath his ribs like a second heart for almost ten years is absent. There’s something else now. Something he can’t quite touch, or identify. But whatever it is, it fucking hurts.

He keeps playing. The Bach piece he slides into provides a melancholy soundtrack to his memories from the past few days. 

He thinks back to yesterday morning, when Wilson knocked over a stack of books while cleaning, and House jumped because he still can't tolerate sudden, loud noises (turns out getting shot does that to you). Wilson had looked confused at first; then, as he made the connection, his eyes had gone all sad and he’d made his way across the living room, crouching before House where he lounged on the couch. He trailed his fingertips along his arm, a slow, skimming motion. He’d slid them beneath the cotton sleeves of House’s t-shirt as he’d tilted his head like a therapist, murmuring something annoyingly Wilson-y like _it’s okay_ or _you’re safe._

House had felt himself shut down, like a gun was being waved at him all over again. Instead of yielding to Wilson’s sensual attempt comfort in the hope of pity sex - which House has been guilty of doing on more occasions than he cares to admit - he’d sharply drawn his head away as Wilson leaned in, mumbling something about not being in the mood. At the time, he'd believed that to be the truth.

Wilson had been quick to nod his understanding, his lips pursed in sympathy as he straightened up and returned to his chores. As his footsteps faded down the hall, the relief that trickled through House like rainwater had startled him.

House slams the piano keys harder, faster, until his playing is less like an intricate classical piece and more of a raucous cabaret song. The memory fades; quickly gives way to another. He thinks about how he rebuffed Wilson’s advances again that morning, this time in the form of a hand skating insistently down his inner thigh as he finished his breakfast. House had glanced up, wary, confused; Wilson responded by resting his head on House’s shoulder, offering a gentle, suggestive smile. 

_And just like that, he’d seen it vividly: another time Wilson had smiled at him like that, just before he’d fucked House on the couch in his office, while fleeting summer rain pelted the window and their pagers vibrated and wailed, ignored on Wilson’s desk. He remembered how Wilson cupped his face in his hands and moved his hips in languid half-circles, how their lips and tongues met in such a faithful imitation of sincere love making that House spent the duration of their sex reminding himself repeatedly that he was just part of a performance, just playing his role in scratching Wilson’s itch for intimacy._

“Good breakfast?” Wilson murmured, like a doting husband.

“Better than Denny’s, worse than Ihop,” House murmured back, like he was playing along.

Wilson had scowled playfully, then tried to touch his face. House had drawn back as if his hand were laced with arsenic. 

_Afterwards, he lay on the couch scrubbing his spunk off his stomach with an antiseptic wipe while Wilson hurriedly got dressed, manic, anxious, rattling off aloud all the things he needed to do. House zoned out, hoping the three Vicodin he popped would make him feel just a little more full, just a little less used._

House plays several wrong notes, tries to chase down the rhythm that eludes him. He stares down at his misbehaving fingers. It gnaws at him, the feeling; it’s quiet, it’s cool, it spreads through his veins like a poison, leaking into his flesh. It grates, it irritates, like a stone in his shoe, a cut on his knuckles that opens every time he grabs for something. He can feel the mattresses of marital beds grating against his bare back, the ghost of Wilson’s hands on his abdomen, warm juddering breaths at his throat, and he wraps his arms around himself, nausea lapping at his throat. He feels it; without the shield of pain and opiates, it envelopes him, and in that moment, that clear, sickening moment, he knows, without a speck of doubt, that he never wants Wilson to touch him again.

_It's hard to tell, hard to tell, when all your love's in vain._

_All my love's in vain._

He wanders into the hallway. The bathroom door is locked. He hears the shower running. He wants to laugh; Wilson, his clothes in House’s closet, his food in House’s fridge, using his shower without asking like things are still so easy, so comfortable. He imagines a past version of himself, rueful, pathetic, listening outside the door like this, worshipping the minutia of Wilson’s daily routine. Daring to feel special, telling himself that Wilson has put his life on hold to take care of him like this out of the _love_ he's just too afraid to confess to. He’s both fascinated and disgusted with himself. 

House lifts his right leg, bends it; lowers it to the floor again, conditioned to expect pain from the movement. When there isn’t any, he’s elated. He wants to test, to push. He eyes the front door. 

He decides to go for a run.

**

House gets to know his newly healed leg all over again.

He’s enamoured with these new possibilities, the options available to a man who can walk unaided. He climbs the stairs in his apartment building just because, laughing to himself through the crushing feeling in his chest when he gets to the top. He sprints back down, before starting the process all over again.

He feels fantastic.

He takes himself for long walks. Sometimes Wilson tags along, but mostly he doesn’t, busying himself back at the apartment with chores and cooking and phone calls to Cuddy that seem to last for millennia. It’s understandable; things are kind of tense. Their conversations are superficial, underlied with irritability; their banter is stilted, either just a little too friendly, or peppered with thinly veiled jibes that the other doesn’t really know how to respond to. They eat meals in silence. Wilson hints about returning to work. He doesn’t try to touch House again, and House is quietly grateful. They don’t talk about his two previous failed attempts at seduction, but then again, Wilson never wants to talk when he’s feeling guilty. As a result, his presence is heavy, tortured, and annoying. But House doesn’t tell him to leave, because even if _he’s_ changed, reality hasn’t: without Wilson, he’s alone.

For now, at least. Perhaps with his working leg, lack of addiction and better mood, his company will become a little more desirable. He wakes up in the morning not full of dread, but ready to grab his sneakers for a run. He wonders how the ducklings are doing, what blouse Cuddy is wearing. He almost misses them.

One evening, House makes Wilson walk over two miles to a steak restaurant, despite Wilson’s protests. House insists on it, partly to spite him, and partly because he wants to see if his leg can take it. He leads them down the route through the park rather than the street, with its manicured lawns and memorial benches and the smooth concrete paths House jogs down in the afternoons. He pointedly complains to Wilson about the parents with their prams and screaming brats, how they get in his way when he’s _trying to exercise_. As they trundle up a particularly long stretch of path, House remarks that he ran its full length yesterday without getting a stitch. 

“You seem happy," Wilson says. "It’s… great. It’s really great, House.”

They face one another as they stroll, and Wilson looks earnest and hopeful. It makes House drop his head to eye the ground instead, watch his new sneakers as they thud over the concrete. He raises his shoulders, pressing his chin into his chest. It’s another of those micro reminders that, despite the awkward silences and rebuffed advances of the past few days, Wilson is still his concerned, overbearing friend. And House doesn’t like it, because it forces him to consider, seriously, whether or not he can live with just that: friendship. 

Objectively, it’s a no-brainer. You’re not supposed to fuck your friends. You’re supposed to accept it and move on when they don’t love you back, rather than communicating it through stupid pranks, insults that cut a little too close, obsessive tracking of their movements. But then again, ordinary friendships have always seemed so boring. House knows he can’t live with being bored; but he’s starting to learn that being confused and miserable is pretty undesirable too.

Silence is faithful to them like a shadow, and House is too absorbed in his ruminations to assess whether or not it’s comfortable. Wilson opens and closes his mouth; he fiddles with the hem of his sweater, indicating that it isn’t.

“So have you thought about when you’re going back to work?” he says, after a while. His tone is friendly, but a little too formal. 

House’s skin prickles. He shrugs. “Not really. Actually, I was thinking I might… you know, _not._ Take early retirement, or something.”

The statement stops them both in their tracks, and House is fairly sure he mirrors the stunned look on Wilson’s face. He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t even know he _was_ going to say that, given that until right now, the thought never even crossed his mind.

His statement twists through the space between them, making a warped sort of sense.

Wilson’s lips twitch, his swallow visible through his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Uh… seriously?” he asks carefully.

“Well, I figure Cuddy’s tits will start to sag soon. And the kids are growing up so fast, they don’t need Uncle Greg cramping their style anymore.” House shrugs, like he’s not ad-libbing, like his heart isn’t pounding. The possibility of a whole new life suddenly glitters, beckons with rich, giftwrapped promise. “Can’t see a good reason to stick around when I look at it that way.”

Wilson looks aghast. He gestures towards himself. “Uh, hello?”

There’s a hint of panic in his tone, and House notes that he feels smug. He holds his head a little higher as he responds with a snort, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t be so menstrual. We can still hang out.”

 _Hang out._ It sounds so flaccid, so normal. Is this... personal growth?

Wilson holds up his hands in disbelief, making a face as if he’s just gulped down neat vinegar. “House, you do realise you’ll go absolutely insane? No medicine? No puzzles? No perfectly decent people to insult?”

He falters a moment, because Wilson has a good point there. Four of them, actually.

He brushes it off.

“So I’ll pick up some consulting work,” he replies. He starts to walk again, slow, confident strides to mask his uncertainty. “Find a coffee shop where I can taunt artsy baristas with stupid piercings. It’ll work out.”

Wilson follows, his speed increasing, walking almost sideways in his desperation to continue this conversation. It’s aggravating in a way that House can’t explain. “But what will you _do_ all day?”

House shrugs again. “Dunno. Watch soaps. Start a Metallica covers band. Get addicted to internet porn. Whatever I feel like.”

He keeps his gaze fixed forward. He’s grown fond of the trees in this place, big and old and majestic and powerful. Perhaps that’s what he’ll do: study trees. Perhaps he’ll become a tree academic. There must be a name for that.

“ _House_ ” Wilson says, in that tone he uses that begs him so desperately to listen that House wants to do the exact opposite. “Where the hell is this coming from? I mean… why?”

“Or perhaps I’ll move to Boston,” House muses aloud, considering the pros and cons on the fly. Pros: surrounded by college babes discovering alcohol, parks to run in, he'd be miles away from Wilson. Cons: drunk 18-year-olds are annoying, he hates Boston, he'd be miles away from Wilson. “Or maybe somewhere I’m not convinced is even a real place, like Winnipeg or Wichita.”

Wilson's pause is heavy. Then he says, in one of his cancer voices, “Listen. Are you sure this isn’t just a reaction to… you know… what happened?”

House slows down. His neck feels tight. “Nope,” he says, in the most aggressively insistent tone of voice he can manage. “Nothing to do with you. Just…”

“With me?” Wilson sounds baffled enough that House’s eyes stray up to meet his face. “What do you mean? I was talking about the whole thing with you getting shot.”

House's blood warms. His hands clench in his coat pockets as Wilson sidles in front of him, stopping him in his path. He raises his hands, like he intends to place them on House’s shoulders; something in House’s expression clearly makes him think better of it, and he quietly clears his throat before lowering them to rest on his hips.

“It’s understandable that you’d be reluctant to return,” he says softly. “I could, uh, arrange for you to talk to someone. You’re probably a little traumatised. It’s to be expected.”

Wilson’s a puzzle in himself. It’s been a key driver in House’s obsession for so long; but lately, it’s just frustrating. Disturbing, that he can’t muster up the energy within himself to discern whether Wilson’s statement is a result of total denial or just violent oblivion. 

“I’m not fucking traumatised, you idiot," he snaps, with more force than his statement could ever call for. His eyes stray back to the path, to a nearby tree with thick, low hanging branches, the corpses of brown and orange leaves scattered on the grass beneath. As a child, he might have wanted to climb it. You know, if things like fun and a pointless sense of pointless adventure were encouraged in his house. 

Well, he decides, with his newly healed leg and need to get away from Wilson, there’s no real reason why he can’t make up for lost time.

He strays off the path towards the tree, ignoring Wilson’s confused demand of, “where are you going?” He presses his hand against the trunk; the bark is rough and abrasive beneath his palm. The leaves crunch their protests as they’re crushed beneath his feet. No one worries too much about trees. Even when they look sad and bare and battered by the seasons, you know they’ll be alright once the cruelty of the colder months has passed. House suddenly understands why weirdos hug these guys.

He stakes out the lowest branch, crooked and withered looking. It's about chest height. He debates whether or not it will take his weight. He recognises the hammering footsteps heading his way as Wilson’s, confirmed by the ensuing confused bleat of _House?_ , and decides he’ll take his chances. 

He wraps his arms around the branch and attempts to lever himself upwards, jauntily swinging a leg at the same time; and it’s around this moment that it dawns on him that he has no idea what he’s doing. When he falls, the leaves are cold and soggy beneath his bark scraped palms, a current of pain shooting through one of his shoulders where he’d tried to hold on. “Fuck,” he mumbles, as he straightens up onto his knees. He mentally assesses his right leg; still feels fine. Great. 

“What the hell are you doing, House?” Wilson demands, crouching down on the grass beside him. He places a hand on House’s shoulder, which House quickly shrugs off. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” House grunts, glancing up to meet Wilson’s face, shining with far more concern than he feels is warranted. He shifts as if to stand up, but Wilson makes no move to do so; something in his expression, his proximity, heightens his pulse, keeps him rooted to the spot. He glares. “What? You never seen a 48 year old man fall out of a tree before?”

Wilson frowns; he offers a hand, and House takes it, assuming Wilson is trying to help him up. It’s become such a routine occurrence over the past seven years, after all; but as Wilson holds his gaze and brings House’s knuckles to his lips, brushing against them in a small kiss, the muscles in his abdomen wind tight.

“Talk to me, House.” His tone is soft, with a hint of plea. “Something’s off. I’m worried about you.”

“You’re _always_ worried about me.” His fingers curl, a reflexive response as Wilson begins to nuzzle his hand against his jaw. He swallows. “Listen,” he tries, “I’m clean. I can walk. I just embraced my inner child, which I think earns me some serious zen points. So you can-”

“ _House_.” Wilson cuts him off. His breath seems to catch; he draws another one, deeper this time. His lips relax into a fond, but tense, smile, as they run across the length of House’s little finger. “Please, just let me in.”

A cyclist zooms past. Somewhere in the distance, dogs bicker in outraged yaps, their owners laughing awkwardly with each other.

Wilson’s eyes close, and then his mouth is on House’s, and his kiss is faint, unsure; House doesn’t protest, but he doesn’t relax either. His lips are non-committal, unmoving. His body doesn’t react, can’t react, won’t _let_ him react. And for the first time, House listens to himself; and when Wilson pulls away, he looks disappointed and utterly, completely baffled.

House stares back at Wilson, drinking in the eyes that have grown so dull over the years, the small crevices that stress and age have carved around them. His focus strays to his impeccably shaven jaw, the mouth that has tasted every inch of his body, now pouting slightly with concern. Today, he’s strong enough to ignore the craving, resist the fantasy; dismiss the part that for so many years shouted the loudest, the part that House was afraid to betray for fear of true loneliness, pain he feared he’d never handle. He knows now he’s been lying to himself. 

Today, he’s ready. 

House swallows, his eyes straying to the ground. He says, simply, “Don’t.”

He shakes Wilson off and gets to his feet, without pain or struggle, before Wilson can respond. He walks on ahead, tilting his chin up so he can drink in the stabs of fading sunlight through the trees. He’s suddenly so awash with gratitude for surviving the attempt on his life that he almost dissolves into tears.

**

That night, House sleeps fitfully. The beers he drank alone in his room whilst Wilson watched TV on the couch have dried out his mouth, given him a slight headache. He slips in and out of colourful, surreal dreams. Some unsettle him; he wakes up sweating at just after 2am, head pressed into the pillow as fragments of his father chasing him through their apartment building in Japan fade back into his subconscious. His breathing eventually slows down. 

He rolls onto his side, taking in the shadows of his belongings etched into the walls by the glow of moonlight and street lamps, invading through the curtains he couldn’t be bothered to fully close. Wilson goes back to work in a couple of days, but he quickly dismisses that as being the reason for his inability to switch off. He can live without his friend; that’s all Wilson is to him now, after all. People go months, years, without seeing their friends. He should count himself lucky that he gets to see his every day… take stock a little more of these things... you know, now he has no reason to dismiss inner peace as bullshit, and all that noise...

He zones out as his mind rambles on, fingers curling tightly around his bedsheets. He closes his eyes.

 _“Which one of you is House_ ?” _says the man who looks vaguely familiar, but House can’t place him._

_Foreman is standing up, poised to leave over some pointless objection to some pointless thing House has said. Chase and Cameron are looking a little wary. If they recognise this guy, they could say something. He’s middle aged, balding, wearing a high street branded suit. He looks like some poor kid’s weekend dad._

_House is annoyed. Security is getting really lax around here lately._

_“The skinny brunette,” he responds, indicating Cameron as he steps away from the whiteboard. His tongue feels weird. A little swollen. He moves it from side to side in his mouth, brushing the silky, moist inner lining of his cheeks. It hurts._

_The intruder nods. “Right.”_

_He reaches into his coat, drawing a pistol like one might draw his wallet. As he aims at Cameron, House’s tongue fills his entire mouth, suffocating any protest that tries to emerge. She yells his name as the bullet hits just below her ribcage, blood leaking through her labcoat, her fingers, and Chase doesn’t move, and someone is calling him and calling him…_

He growls, swatting at the hand on his shoulder. Earthquake? Nope - he’s in his bedroom. Wilson is shaking him. 

“House! Hey!”

His pillow is damp; so are his sheets when he places his arm against the mattress, hoisting himself upright. “What?” he snaps, although he has a damn good idea. Embarrassment prevents him from meeting Wilson’s eyes. He's had that dream a few times now. It's the only time his mind really shows him the shooter's face.

The outline in the darkness stands upright; the hands find the hips. Typical. “Are you okay? You, uh, woke me up.”

“Fine.” House scowls, then makes a show of peering under the duvet. “Oopsie. Looks like one of them ol’ nocturnal emissions.” He pauses awkwardly. “So, I guess you’d better go. You’ll seriously hurt my chances of another one.”

Wilson brushes off the insult, just like he always does. It's a shame; House had kind of hoped that one would hurt. “I've known you long enough to recognise a nightmare when I hear one.” He suddenly sounds amused. “Although I guess a wet dream would explain why you were yelling for Cameron.”

House snorts, laying back down with a thud. He eyes the ceiling, obscured by darkness. “I’ll have you know that Dream Cameron fucks like a pornstar,” he says. “As I recall, Cuddy was about to join us. Thank you _so_ much for the interruption.”

“Sure, House.”

House draws the blanket up to his chest; Wilson lingers. He can feel Wilson’s gaze resting on him, assessing for psychological damage. He’s seen House through some pretty horrific nightmares over the years, and to his credit, he’s never been a dick about them. Usually quite the opposite. House’s chest tightens; he shuts his eyes, as if to protect himself from what he’s about to do. He wordlessly shifts to the other side of the bed, the untouched sheets cool against his back. He clears his throat, hoping to communicate what he can’t quite vocalise. It’s nothing to do with Wilson, he tells himself. He’s just a little freaked out, and he needs human contact. Wilson just happens to be the only person around.

Wilson, however, seems hesitant. “You sure?” he asks. “I mean, after earlier…”

“Earlier still stands,” House snaps. “You’re invited as a friend. Because, as _your_ friend, I know how much of a bang you get out of comforting the sick, and, slash, or, distressed.”

Wilson laughs a little at this, but it’s nervous, hesitant. “So long as I'm not gonna be lying in your, uh, emission.”

House rolls onto his side, as Wilson peels back the sheets and slides into bed; he’s initially a little stiff when Wilson sidles closer, draping an arm around his waist, but he soon can’t help but relax into the familiar, soothing embrace. He bites back a contented grunt as he shifts backwards, feeling Wilson’s form meld around his like plasticine; Wilson sighs into his shoulder, and it’s heavy, a scream of relief.

_It's hard to tell, hard to tell, when all your love's in vain._

“Any funny business and you’re banished back to the couch,” House insists, sliding his no-longer-bad-leg between Wilson’s thighs.

“Fine by me.” Wilson gives his waist a little squeeze. “I like this part the best anyways.”

House lies awake all night, analysing every syllable of that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert Johnson - Love in Vain  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=07T3h0b93Rg


End file.
